


No drop of you to waste

by Anonymous



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gay Sex, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Non-Graphic Violence, Quackity is a freak, im sorry for this, sorta poetry?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29967183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Quackity falls head over heels for a certain ram-hybrid, who brings out a side of him he hadn't seen since he was 17.Quackity finds out how dirty he really is.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity/Jschlatt
Kudos: 41
Collections: Anonymous





	No drop of you to waste

Quackity fell in love with Schlatt the moment he met him.

How could he not? The ram was like an unopened bottle of red wine that your parents had bought for when you turn eighteen. You stare at it on the top of the counter for weeks, the forbidden alcohol sticking its tongue out in your face each time you fucking think about it. A curiosity and longing burns deep within you, itching more and more each day that passes.

Schlatt is wrong, Schlatt is forbidden.

He feels like an absolute idiot when he introduces himself. His height marks to about the other's shoulders and when the other looked at him with those intense, intimidating eyes, it seems as if he's about ten times shorter.

Quackity would let himself feel even shorter if it meant he could get on his knees for the other.

The sun is above them when Wilbur reveals his plans for an election. Quackity listens with a drink in his hand before whispering to Tommy that he was going to run for president. It was meant as a joke for the most part, but Tommy, bless him, excitedly punches his arms and tells him he'd be good competition.

Schlatt overhears them and huffs in doubt. Quackity wants to undress in front of him and have him laugh at his body.

It's late at night when Quackity is getting carried home. The horizon is going around in a ferris wheel, Spanish songs from his childhood jump around in his head and he sings his thoughts out loud. Tubbo is puffing and sputtering underneath his arm. They're alone.

A figure appears in his sight. It's tall and dark and evil. Big horns poke out against the white moonlight, and all Quackity can think about is them crushing his chest.

There is some spoken words above him, ones that cannot understand. When gravity changes and he suddenly finds himself in the arms of the devil, his fantasies become reality. Trembling hands grab onto whatever it is he can reach. The other's undershirt, the other's hair, he even squeezes the other's ass.

He's getting yanked and tugged in every single direction but he doesn't stop until his sunkissed skin _hurts_ and he can only hope that Schlatt's hands leave bruises. Quackity prays that he'll find a black hand-print on his thigh in the morning.

He's in a house he doesn't know, laying on top of freshly washed bed sheets that don't belong to him. His jacket seems to constrict around him, and he hastily zippers it down, letting his chest breathe in the air. And he's straight-up begging now, begging for Schlatt to ruin his body, guiding the other's hands to roam over his skin.

And Schlatt is on top of him now, and every thought in Quackity's mind is _screeching_ at him how wrong this is. He's heavily intoxicated, he isn't able to consent, but Schlatt doesn't care, bringing their lips together and it's so _unbelievably_ wrong but he _needs_ it so badly. It feels like he is going to _die_ if Schlatt doesn't take advantage of him.

Schlatt's hand is on his throat, squeezing like his own hand on the thin end of the wine bottle. The moon was high in the sky when he downed the entire thing, still months away from his birthday. Guilt and shame courses through his veins, driving him up the edge of the wall while only being able to scream a mantra of the other's name.

Quackity would _worship_ Schlatt for this feeling to never go away.

Orange rays of morning sunlight stream in through his window. He can't move. He can barely even breathe. Everything hurts yet buzzes such a delectable little song inside his muscles. He feels used.

It takes him over an hour before he can even find enough energy to lift his head. There's no glass of water, painkillers or even a little note. There's nothing. 

_He's alone in an empty house after nearly getting fucked to death. And he liked it._

He feels so incredibly dirty, his previously pristine body littered in blood-leaking bruises. A reminder of his shameful sins, he can feel his parents disappointment _scorch_ his chest when they found him in the morning, vomiting over the toilet bowl and being sensitive to all light.

Quackity _loathes_ himself for sneaking in another bottle the next day.

**Author's Note:**

> Im sorry for writing this


End file.
